Shadow of G
by Alex75
Summary: [PostDoC, Compilation Spoilers]Chapter 7 uploaded! Vincent has a flashback to an event he never saw...what does this mean?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The Forgotten City was a lonely place.

In the distant past it was filled with life, as the ancient people known today as the Cetra lived, worked, even died there. It was a place filled with ghosts and bad memories, a crumbling ruin surrounded by ghostly translucent trees.

And that was what made it ideally suited for Vincent Valentine's purposes. The ex-Turk had no need to eat or sleep, so the barren and crumbling landscape was no trouble for him; it did, however, prevent all but the most determined of intruders from coming to his doorstep. His old friends from AVALANCHE were willing to make such a journey to visit him, but nobody else would go to such trouble to violate his privacy.

Except for Shelke.

Ever since the conclusion of the Omega incident, the girl had done her best to stick by him. Considering she was totally alone in the world, with neither her fellow SOLDIERs or her sister around to comfort her, her need for companionship was obvious. And he was the only person she knew.

However, ten years of rough treatment as a Deep Ground SOLDIER had taken their toll on her young body; she was forced to stay in Edge as WRO scientists did their best to wean her from her physical dependence on mako baths. She was making progress, but it was slow going, and Vincent couldn't shake the impression after multiple phone calls that he wasn't being told about something. Still, he was secretly a little pleased with the news that she was up to taking airship rides; that meant that she could come see him. Something about her youth and ties to Lucrecia stirred a long-dormant paternal instinct in him.

He often climbed a tree to listen to the messages on his cell-phone, a bad habit he picked up from Cloud's own poor cell-phone etiquette. Sitting in the boughs of a massive translucent oak, he could watch the sky as he went through the tedious chore of sifting through tired pleasantries from his friends and job offers from total strangers. His most recent message, however, was from Shelke.

"Hi, Vincent. I've been doing a lot better lately, and the WRO doctors think I can make the trip up to see you now without having to worry about a mako bath. Captain Highwind offered to give me a lift when he does a supply run to Icicle Inn tomorrow, so I'll see you..." "How many #&ing times do I have to tell ya, it's /Cid! None of that 'Captain Highwind' $#&." "It's not very nice to talk like that in front of a lady! --Anyway, take care Vincent. See you soon."

Vincent frowned. That message was three days old...and he knew it didn't take that long to make the trip from Midgar to his home, which he was sure Shelke would have made the instant she was able to. Something wasn't right.

He didn't get any further in his train of thought before the report of a gun being fired echoed through the forest; as a former Turk, his trained ears instantly picked it out as a .45. In the distance he could see birds flying off in alarm, giving him an approximate location. Checking to make sure Cerberus was attached securely to his belt, he sprung into action...reaching the scene of the disturbance took mere seconds when one was agile enough to dash from treetop to treetop as if he were on solid ground.

* * *

What Vincent found when he got there was...unexpected, to say the least. A woman with long brown hair, wearing an unbuttoned lab-coat, was laying face-down in the dirt with a pistol a few feet away from her hand. She appeared to be unconscious. Standing over her was a man with a distinctly Wutaian appearance wearing a dark trench coat that reminded Vincent uncomfortably of Sephiroth's, over a red shirt and pants. His hair was wild and unkempt, a sort of pale brown with blond highlights...and his eyes blazed mako blue. Vincent knew straight away that he was dealing with a SOLDIER...and then he noticed something that gave him pause.

"Where did you get that?" he asked in his usual mild voice, gesturing with his clawed hand at the man's weapon...it appeared to be a katana with a rifle barrel attached to the back of the blade, and a trigger on the hilt. Vincent had seen the weapon before; it belonged to Weiss, the leader of the Deep Ground SOLDIERs, who Vincent had killed very recently. Seeing the weapon again was jarring, to say the least.

The man simply smiled, an enigmatic and eerie grin that didn't reach his eyes...Vincent recognized the look in his eyes as a predatory one, and kept a hand near Cerberus' grip just in case. "Vincent Valentine...you don't recognize me, little brother?" the man asked in a low voice, his tone at once playful and dangerous...the voice of a cat playing with a mouse. As he mouthed the words 'little brother', his pupils narrowed into vertical slits, making the comparison only more apt.

Vincent wasn't impressed with the transparent attempt at intimidation. He had dealt with many SOLDIERs before, both with and without his friends in AVALANCHE. The man's words, however, gave him pause; the only indication of his confusion was a slight arching of one raven eyebrow. "I never had a brother," Vincent replied levelly, keeping one eye on the stranger as he glanced over at the woman who was unconscious on the ground...he had a sneaking suspicion as to who it was, but kept that to himself as the stranger began to laugh.

The man's laugh was unpleasant, a gesture with every drop of good humor transferred to scorn and derision. "Of course not." The man bowed elaborately, his eyes never wavering from their target as he gave another sly grin. "That doesn't change the fact that you're my brother. We share the same...blood." The glow in the stranger's eyes turned to a brilliant flash, and Vincent suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his left arm, like someone had just driven a spike through his palm.

Looking down at his hand, Vincent could have sworn he saw black ichor dripping from between the joints of his armored gauntlet...but when he blinked his eyes there was nothing. He glared at the stranger angrily, drawing Cerberus with his left hand and aiming it at the foreign man's head. "What did you do?" Vincent's voice was low and dangerous, but this only seemed to amuse the man further.

"Just a little present, that's all, brother. I wouldn't worry about it...I would worry about the lady, though, she's not looking too good." Vincent followed the man's gaze to the woman in the lab coat...for the first time he could tell she was bleeding profusely, and it was mixing with some strange yellow substance. By the time he returned his attention to the dark stranger, a single wing had sprung from the man's left shoulder, nearly as long as he was tall and with feathers as dark as the night itself. The man smirked and gave a little wave before crouching down and launching himself into the air; he moved so quickly that Vincent couldn't even follow, the only sign that the man had even been standing there a few loose feathers drifting out of the sky.

Shaking his head in irritation at the man's goading, Vincent went over to check on the woman in the lab coat. He had a good idea of who it was, which was only confirmed when he crouched down and gently rolled the woman onto her back. One eye, purple and black clothes, a robotic left arm now cracked and oozing lubricant...it was Shalua Rui.

_Shalua...what's she doing here? Wasn't she in a coma?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

When Shalua finally came to, she did so with a start. Her last memory before blissful unconsciousness was of lying on the cold ground, bleeding, and sure that she was going to die.

It took her a moment to realize that she was in a bed, a warm one at that, and that her wounds had been bandaged. There was still an angry bruise on the left side of her face, but the gash over her stomach and the shot to her right shoulder had been expertly treated and bandaged, and her left leg was in a partial cast; she was wearing a loose-fitting man's dress shirt that was so big it ended at somewhere near her mid-thigh. Color flushed to her cheeks as she realized someone had stripped her clothes off to bandage her, then changed her into her current attire.

All in all, her surroundings weren't unpleasant. She was in a room with wooden floors, but the walls seemed to be made out of some organic-looking pearlescent material...it looked like she was in a giant shell of some kind. Light was streaming in through a window over her head, so it must have been around noon. Shelves lined the walls, and Shalua thought that at one point this room must have belonged to a scholar; the shelves were packed with books, some dusty and ancient, some with the plastic-y shine that only comes from a brand-new softcover.

"You're awake."

Shalua just about jumped out of her skin at the baritone voice piercing the silence of the room, reaching down for her gun and feeling foolish when she remembered it was gone. The voice was oddly familiar, someone she remembered helping during the Omega incident, and as Shalua searched for its source her eyes fell on a familiar dark figure in a red cloak. Vincent was sitting in a chair across the room from her bed, a toolbox at his feet and a screwdriver in his hand as he fiddled with the innards of a mechanical arm. To Shalua's shock, she realized it was hers; glancing down at the neat scar on her left shoulder confirmed its' absence, and she narrowed her good eye at Vincent. "Was this all really necessary?" she asked after a moment's pause, not wanting to seem ungrateful but still a little unnerved by the liberties she felt Vincent had took.

"I couldn't have bandaged you without doing something with your clothes, and they were soaking wet anyway," he began, as if reading her mind. "So I had to get you into something dry. As for this..." he gestured at the arm in his lap, "It was broken. I assumed you'd want it repaired straight away, so I've been working on it since you got here. That was around two days ago."

Shalua immediately felt silly for doubting Vincent as he spoke to her in his usual calm, measured voice; he had always been nothing if not the perfect gentleman, and the revelation that he had been working for several days to help her was comforting. So she decided to change the subject to something more important. "Where's Shelke?" she asked, causing Vincent to stop what he was doing.

"What do you mean?" he responded in a tone of voice that frightened Shalua; he didn't seem to have any clue what she was talking about.

"My sister," she began lamely, again feeling silly for bringing something up that Vincent doubtless already knew, "She was coming to see you. You don't mean she's..." Vincent shook his head.

"I haven't seen her yet. Frankly, I was starting to get a little...concerned." Shalua suppressed a sigh; she half-suspected that nothing could 'frighten' or 'worry' Vincent...only 'concern'. "I have...I have to find her. That hateful man was talking about her, and I didn't spend ten years looking for her to lose her now." She tried to push herself out of bed, but cried out as her wounded shoulder sent spasms of pain shooting up her spine when she tried to put weight on it.

Vincent rose from his seat. "No."

Disbelief flashed across her face as she stared at him. "What do you mean, 'no'? You want to just leave her..."

"I mean exactly what I said," Vincent said as he began to approach the bed. "You're not going anywhere until you can walk. You can't go searching for her in crutches."

Shalua grit her teeth, steeling herself as she attempted to once more push herself up. It hurt, oh god it hurt, but she had already suffered worse for her "life"...she'd give anything for Shelke, so what was a little pain anyway? "You don't understand, do you? I have to find my sister!" she shouted in a strained voice, all of her effort focused on not passing out from the excruciating pain as she was sure she could feel torn ligaments straining futilely in her arm. Finally it became too much, and she fell back onto the bed, exhausted and hating herself for being so weak as her mind fell into the deep haze of unconsciousness. _Shelke..._

* * *

Elsewhere, Shelke found herself waking up in what felt for all the world like a dungeon. It was cold, it was dank, it was lit with TORCHES for Gaia's sake...definitely not a pleasant place. And it was cold, so very cold...she shivered uncontrollably and wished that she still had her Deep Ground SOLDIER uniform with her; she was wearing normal clothes now, and they weren't half as warm as the insulated and kevlar-armored military outfit. A pink blouse and a blue skirt may have helped her blend in with normal people, but she would have traded them in a heartbeat for the uniform. 

She practically yelled when she noticed that she wasn't alone. She was off to the side of the room, and in the center was a large stone altar with a body on it. The body was tanned and well-muscled, with snow-white spiky hair that resembled a lion's mane...Shelke shook her head as she recognized him. It was Weiss, her former commander in SOLDIER and a man she was sure was dead after Vincent put a half-dozen bullets in his head. The Turks, even ex-Turks, had no sense of overkill. But...if he was dead before, how did he get here? How did she get here, for that matter?

She must have voiced these thoughts as well, because as soon as she finished she heard a low voice reply from the darkness: "That's simple." She whirled around in surprise, wishing she had one of her trademark energy spears with her...she felt rather naked without them.

The man standing before her now looked to be a fellow SOLDIER, judging by his mako blue eyes and physical appearance. He almost looked Wutaian to her, with lightly tanned skin and brown hair that ended in blonde highlights. His clothing was dark, a mix of reds and greys that almost reminded her of Vincent. And he was grinning at her in a most disturbing fashion, arms held out to the side as if welcoming.

"I brought you here," he said, never once breaking his grin or moving his eyes from Shelke. She almost felt like backing away, as there seemed to be an aura of pure menace surrounding the man.

Nevertheless, she screwed up her courage and squared her shoulders as she responded. She was still a SOLDIER, and she wasn't going to let this man see how frightened she was if she could help it. "I think that was obvious," she said with far more courage than she actually felt, "but I'm really more interested in 'why'."

The man laughed coldly, lowering his face and glaring up at Shelke as his pupils narrowed into cat-like slits. He said nothing, but began to approach her in slow, measured strides. The clap of boots on stone echoed through the room, and Shelke did her best not to run away...but as he drew within arm's length of her she flinched entirely against her will, closing her eyes and looking away. To her surprise, however, the man kept walking...he moved aside and walked past her as if she wasn't even there, only stopping when he reached the altar. He then turned to face her, still grinning maniacally. "Come now, this isn't a soap opera. I'll reveal my plans when I'm good and ready: when it's far too late to stop them. Now be a good girl, shut up, and watch."

Shelke stood transfixed as the man suddenly turned his back to her, holding his hands out over Weiss' body; she could see the dead SOLDIER's katana-rifles sheathed at this stranger's back. As the moon rose full over a hole in the roof ahead, bathing the cavern in a pale glow, Shelke watched in horror as inky black tendrils began to snake out of Weiss' body and into the stranger's hands. Before her eyes the corpse began to wither as more and more of the black substance transferred between the two, until finally nothing remained of her former commander except for a small pile of dust. In that instant, Shelke thought she felt the cavern tremble slightly as the man turned to look at her.

"He'll do for now...but there's still that witch to contend with..." he murmured as if she wasn't even there, his gaze suddenly pensive. "...not to mention brother and the tin lady..." then his attention refocused on Shelke, clapping his hands as if he had suddenly gotten a wonderful idea.

Shelke had a good idea who the 'tin lady' was, and narrowed her amber eyes in anger. "Don't you dare call my sister that, you..."

The man said nothing more, but simply turned his back to her as a large black-feathered wing sprung from his left shoulder. In the blink of an eye he was gone, shooting up through the hole in the ceiling and leaving a few stray feathers in his wake.

"Well...now what?"

* * *

It was night. The bedroom had darkened considerably, the only illumination coming from the full moon overhead filtered through the overhead window. The ray of moonlight it draped over the bed cast everything in sharp relief; if Vincent hadn't known better he would have said Shalua looked almost angelic with her hair spread out into an auburn halo around her head and an expression of utter peace on her face. He hadn't moved from his seat across the room from her. 

It was almost hard to believe she had been fighting the Shin-ra for close to ten years, but she had the mental and physical scars to prove it. She only had one eye, the other scarred permanently shut, while her prosthetic arm lay in a corner; Vincent had finished repairing it about an hour ago. She no longer fit the traditional image of beauty, but something in her appearance called to mind Lucrecia. Maybe that was why he saved her. Maybe it was because he still owed her for saving him from Rosso.

Vincent was shaken from that train of thought by a sudden sharp pain in his left hand; while it was believed to be a prosthetic by most people who saw him, he actually wore an armored gauntlet over a flesh-and-blood hand. Hastily, Vincent tugged at the straps holding the gauntlet on...the pain grew worse, and he didn't even care as the gauntlet clattered noisily to the floor. Underneath was a leather glove, which he practically ripped off in a haze of pain. And underneath that was bare flesh, and the proof of his non-human status: his hand was warped and arthritic-looking, with his knuckles looking large and swollen. Up to the elbow, his flesh was covered in what looked like knotty, inflamed scar tissue.

That wasn't what concerned him, though...Vincent was used to the hideous sight by now. The problem was the marking on the back of his palm. It was a dark, blotchy spot that seemed to be spreading tendrils down his arm. His veins could be seen as dark lines against his flesh now, and if he didn't know better he could have sworn it was a sign of infection. But, it had only started when he had met that man who attacked Shalua, so it must have been something he did. Whatever it was that he did, Vincent suspected it wasn't good; it felt like his hand was on fire, like his blood was trying to leap out through his palm.

Something stirred. Vincent's head shot up as he saw Shalua turning in bed, her eyelids fluttering. Quickly he pulled the discarded glove back on, rising from his seat and turning his back to her as he began to re-attach his trademark gauntlet. He could tell by the rustling of fabric that she was on the move, but a quick glance revealed that she was resting her back against the headboard, and not trying to get out of bed again. Considering earlier events, Vincent was glad she decided to be reasonable. Her expression seemed pensive.

"Do you know who that man is?" she asked, finally.

Vincent shook his head, leaning back in his chair to stare up at the moon. The brilliant light was a poor distraction from his arm, but it helped. "Should I?"

Shalua bit her lip as if considering her options. Now that she was upright, her hair had fallen back into its natural position, long strands of auburn partially obscuring her face as she looked down at her hands. "You...probably should," she began, haltingly. "That man is G. The one in the G Reports you found."

The only indication Vincent made of his shock was a sharp intake of breath.

* * *

Author Notes: For those of you who haven't played Dirge of Cerberus, don't worry; a more precise description of Shalua will be coming up soon. I couldn't think of a way to do it to date without it seeming contrived. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Adjusting her hair as she stood before a full-length mirror, Shalua Rui sighed. She couldn't believe Shelke was really gone. To try and take her mind off of the issue, she was busy preparing herself to go out, but it wasn't helping much. She glanced over herself in the mirror one more time.

She was attractive, but wouldn't dare acknowledge it if asked. With long auburn hair done up in a ponytail and a body honed by years of physical exercise, she could have passed for a model. Except, she would say, for the fact that she was missing an eye, only one blue orb staring out from behind her glasses. Having taken a shot to the face years ago, her left eye had been surgically removed and the socket sewn shut. Every time she looked in the mirror it was a reminder of the things that she had given up for her sister.

Like her arm, which she had also lost in battle; a Shinra grunt with a sword had mangled it so badly it had to be removed as well. She gave her prosthetic a brief flex as if testing it, the metal and rubber joints making only a faint hydraulic hiss as she did so. She silently praised Vincent's mechanical skills; the arm seemed as good as new.

The state of her body was partly why she dressed as she did, in a low-cut pink and black top that left her bare midriff exposed, and a matching miniskirt with a crescent moon-shaped slit cut into the side. Over this she wore a labcoat, which she very rarely actually used...mostly she let the sleeves dangle at her sides, seeing them as an impediment. The risque clothing was a way of re-asserting her own feminity in the face of her increasingly mechanical form; the arm was the least of her replacements, most of them safely hidden deep within her body.

And that was totally discounting her newest injuries; a blotchy yellowing bruise covered the right side of her face, and an angry-looking scabbed line snaked from right to left across her midriff. Currently, she was resting on a pair of crutches, her left leg still just as broken as it was the previous day when she had passed out.

She was interrupted from her introspection when she saw something in the mirror; a dark shadow stepped into the doorway behind her. It was Vincent, and he appeared to be in the middle of a phone call.

"Yes, who is this?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...I see. Thank you for informing me."

click!

Shalua stifled a laugh; it was kind of amusing to see that Vincent wasn't much more talkative on the phone than in real life. Then she turned around as quickly as she could while on crutches. She didn't have to say a thing; again it seemed as if Vincent were reading her mind.

He gave her one of his trademark neutral looks, the kind where his face looked like it was carved of ivory for all the expression it bore. "That was Reeve. The WRO spotted Rosso boarding a boat bound for Wutai."

Shalua practically leapt in the air, but of course the crutches restrained her. "She was with Shelke in SOLDIER...she _has_ to have some kind of information on her, right?"

Vincent nodded, almost imperceptibly so. "Reeve has some men 'handling it'. I doubt very much they can 'handle' a SOLDIER, so that's why I'm going to Wutai to help."

Shalua froze, and could have sworn she felt her jaw drop at his last statement. "'you'? What about 'we'? She's my sister, and I can't just sit around here feeling sorry for myself while you go rescue her!"

The marksman shook his head, turning on his heels with cat-like grace. "...You're injured." he intoned calmly in that baritone voice of his, as if he were commenting on the weather.

For the briefest of instants, Shalua felt like she were talking with a child who wasn't grasping the obvious. A little of that irritation slipped into her voice. "I know you have to have a Restore materia around here, or _something_."

When Vincent turned his head to look at her, Shalua saw something in his eyes she wasn't used to seeing. It was pain. Then a moment later it was gone, and he spoke as if nothing had happened: "I'm not...fond of magical healing. It's tiring on the body with repeated use."

Shalua sighed. Part of her was appreciative of Vincent's concern, but she wasn't about to let go, and the notion that she was someone who needed to be protected galled her. "Your concern is touching, but if you think for one instant I'm going to let you galivant around looking for MY sister while I twiddle my thumb in here, you...you..." She trailed off then, apparently at a loss for words to describe how she was feeling. Losing her temper was very uncharacteristic of her, which prompted a raised eyebrow from Vincent. Then she composed herself, squaring her shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. "Look, it's my body...I've already sacrificed so much of it for Shelke's sake, I can't just give up now. Please, Vincent, don't take this task away from me."

Vincent considered his options. His first inclination was to just turn and walk away as if he hadn't spoken with her. That was his usual M.O. when dealing with uncomfortable conversations. Then he looked into her searching gaze, and saw something. Something familiar. It almost reminded him of the look Lucrecia gave him when she wanted something...the kind of look he couldn't refuse. So, with a tired sigh he reached into his pocket and produced a green materia that he held out at arm's length. Closing his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he called out to the memories hidden within the crystallized bit of Lifestream...

_**Hang on! I can stop the bleeding, brother! I...I know how! So please, just hang on a little bit longer!**_

Green motes of energy danced away from the materia in Vincent's hand, surrounding Shalua's battered body and condensing over her injuries. Where they touched, pain faded; the bruise on her face began to disappear, the gunshot wound in her arm knitting back together...and as she glanced down she could see the slash over her midsection fading away as well. Her leg felt like it was brand new, and an experimental step forward confirmed that all was well. Shattering the plaster cast with a good kick against the floor was a welcome relief.

Vincent, for his part, had a deep frown on his face that was concealed behind the high collar of his trademark cloak. Truth be told, he wasn't very fond of materia at all, and the memory of someone trying to heal their injured brother only proved the point.

Materia, you see, are the memories and power of the ancients given physical form. By tapping into these memories you can unleash magical power. For Vincent, however, the brief glimpses into someone else's life they gave were an unwelcome intrusion. He was used to keeping his own counsel, and frankly preferred it that way.

But, seeing Shalua whole and eager to go made him wonder if it was worth it this time. He nodded as if at some unseen question, then abruptly brought the thumb and forefinger of his normal hand up to his mouth, and...whistled. One sharp, loud note.

Shalua tilted her head to one side in curiousity, not having expected the sound from her companion. Then she heard a rustling of feathers outside the shell-house, and a muffled 'kweh!'.

"Our ride is here," Vincent said solemnly. Just like he said almost everything else.

* * *

Katana sighed and adjusted his tie.

He considered himself a man of action. Nearly a decade in the Turks hadn't dulled his true nature one little bit. It was KILLING him to stand around a market in Da Chao and pretend he fit in. A foreigner in a fancy blue suit, jacket halfway unbuttoned to reveal the neat white dress shirt beneath. His face was covered in scars, with glasses that glinted in the afternoon sun and a sheathed katana in one hand. Yeah, he really belonged here. Thankfully they were off in a side alley that was far from the hustle and bustle of the market.

Frankly, he didn't mind it at all.

But his partner's whining was REALLY starting to get to him.

"Ka-taaaanaaa..."

Six years later and Shotgun was still a beauty, with aristocratic features, alabaster skin, and long silky brown hair. She was one of the few people who, in Katana's mind, made the Turks' standard uniform look GOOD. Even with the ugliness of her namesake weapon slung over her shoulder; her new shotgun was a deadly-looking toy, with a box magazine underneath, a jet-black finish, and a collapsing stock. The kind of thing that promised death to anyone in her way.

He just wished, for the love of Gaia, that she would learn to let things go.

"We've been over this before, Shotgun. You know why we're here, your whining won't change that."

Shotgun looked vaguely hurt. Katana briefly wished he hadn't let his inner thoughts bubble to the surface like that, but it couldn't be helped; she was a big girl, she'd live.

Their job here was simple: stand by and keep an eye out for their target, who they weren't even sure would show. Their backup was nearby, but Katana had no clue how near...it was standard procedure for the Turks to operate in seperate teams, so that nobody could overtly or covertly betray an entire operation.

"Say, Yosef..."

Katana glared at his partner, the kind of look that could curdle milk. Unfortunately for him it was obscured by his glasses, as a ray of sun caused them to turn into two bright ovals. "Don't call me that. You know we left those common names behind us when we joined the Turks."

Shotgun huffed, narrowing her eyes at Katana. "What's with you today anyway? It's not like you to get so nervous when we're eliminating someone."

"Because we're not really Turks anymore. Shin-ra is dead, and we're basically working pro bono for all that the WRO can spare us. Our target is not like the normal scum. This is serious, Shotgun: the company isn't here to back us up anymore."

Abruptly, Shotgun looked askance and held a hand up, gesturing for silence. Katana complied. "She's here," she whispered, her voice edgy as she carefully lowered her weapon to her side. Across the market, a woman with unnaturally-shaped red hair had appeared. She was wearing a dark red trenchcoat, fully buttoned, and had what appeared to be a very large guitar case strapped to her back. Katana almost mistook her for a minstrel of some kind, until he noticed her eyes: they were red, and glowed with mako fire.

The hunt was on.

* * *

Rosso had never felt so humiliated in her life. After barely surviving Vincent's wrath in Midgar, she was forced to run. Run, from a battle. The very idea was anathema to her soul, and it took every bit of concentration she had not to lash out at the humans that surrounded her. She knew she was stronger than they could ever be...all she'd have to do is pull her double-bladed sword out from its concealment at her back, and let the blood run until she grew bored.

But she couldn't.

She was the last Deep Ground SOLDIER now, she had to lay low for a bit. Had to plan, had to think of some way to reverse this setback...maybe find the other Zvets, if they hadn't all been killed. She wanted so badly to kill, though; it was like a fire inside her.

Suddenly she got some unexpected relief, when a voice from behind called out to her: "Rosso!" She immediately spun around, finding herself face to face with a scarred man with glasses in a dark blue suit, and a waifish young girl in a similar suit. Turks. The man with glasses had a sword, one of Wutai make to Rosso's recollection, which he had resting over his shoulders supported by his right hand...he shrugged off his left jacket sleeve and tucked his left arm into his jacket, leaving his hand dangling as if broken. Rosso couldn't place the gesture, but she could place the woman cocking what appeared to be a very large and dangerous-looking gun and aiming it at her. _Great...they send the Turks after me NOW?_

Then the man with the sword was on her, swinging with deceptive speed and power considering he was only using one arm.

* * *

For his part, Katana was thrilled at how everything had worked out. The woman was so lost in thought that she hadn't even noticed them approaching, or that everyone in the whole damn market had cleared out at the sight of the Turks. It was almost too easy.

As he suspected, the guitar case was a sham; she immediately reached for it, but his initial slash was aimed at the strap holding it to her, and so the case fell to the ground with a loud 'clank!' before she could grab whatever weapon it contained. She growled ferally and leapt back, skillfully dodging his follow-up.

Then he heard someone clearing their throat, and ducked to the side; Rosso seemed confused by the gesture, but then saw Shotgun standing with a clear line of sight to her and her weapon ready to fire. He had bought her time to get off a shot, by standing directly in front of her before she was ready.

Unfortunately for the Turks, SOLDIER doesn't accept just anyone. Rosso saw the shotgun coming up just early enough for her to duck away, a solid slug whizzing past her ear and embedding in a miniature bronze copy of the Da Chao statue behind her. She made a grab for the guitar case, but froze in mid-leap as the man with the sword suddenly placed his blade in her path. She glared up at him for a moment. "Fine, I don't need that to kill you anyway." Then she leapt up with all the grace and power one would expect of the Mako-enhanced, and drove her fist into the sword-wielding Turk's stomach as hard as she could.

To his credit, Katana remained conscious after the blow. He even managed to retain his footing, stumbling back a few steps in the process. Unfortunately, that was all the gap that Rosso needed. She quickly jumped in and kicked her legs out in front of her, diving low and knocking her target's feet out from under him. His partner didn't dare fire at such close range for fear of hitting the other Turk. How touching.

Before Katana had reached the ground, Rosso's hand shot out, grabbing him by the ankle and spinning him around with inhuman speed. Shotgun could only gape in horror as their target suddenly released her grip, sending Katana spinning like a human football. Too late, she realized that he was heading straight for HER. Turk met Turk with a deafening crash, knocking both to the ground in a dazed heap.

Rosso simply clucked her tongue as she strode matter-of-factly to the guitar case and reached inside. Withdrawing her trademark double-bladed sword, a red-tinted affair with a large D-shaped grip, she approached the two Turks who were flitting in and out of consciousness. "How easy it would be to end your lives here...I should thank you, I haven't had this much fun in YEARS." She raised the blade overhead, and was just about to strike, when she heard something whistling through the air...she had just enough time to raise her arm to shield herself, before a liquor bottle smashed against her forearm and shattered into a thousand pieces. She ignored the pain as bits of glass stuck to her; she even found it a little exhilirating. However, her face fell a little as her eyes followed the bottle to its source.

Standing at the steps of the Turtle's Paradise were two men in blue suits. One had brilliant red hair that was almost pink, with crescents of the same shade tattooed under his eyes. His suit was rumpled and unbuttoned, a pair of aviator goggles on his forehead and a metal stick in one hand that seemed to have buttons and switches on it. The other's suit was impeccably maintained, his head completely bald and eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses. The only deviation from the standard Turk dress code were his earrings, and a pair of leather gloves.

"You guys got beaten already?" the man with the red hair asked incredulously, glaring at the semi-conscious Turks. "Damn, and you newbies wonder why we always leave you behind, yo."

The bald man simply adjusted his gloves. "They can't hear you. Let's deal with the target first."

The red-haired man sighed and shook his head. "It never ends, does it Rude?" Then he turned his attention to Rosso, grinning in a lazy, wheedling fashion. "Heeeey, lady. You should know that the Turks are kind of a close-knit bunch. I'm afraid we're going to have to beat you up now before we haul your ass in. It's the principle of the thing, yo."

Rosso grinned. This was going to be FUN.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Forum for this 'fic now up, ID #216926. Stop by for a bit if you like. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Da Chao was normally a bustling city. Ever since the day that Meteor fell, the land of Wutai, which sat almost half a world away from the city of Midgar, had become more and more vital to international trade. After their all-too-recent defeat in the war with Shin-ra (a company which no longer existed), things were looking up for the island nation.

That is, unless the ex-SOLDIER and the two Turks now brawling their way through the central marketplace didn't destroy the place first.

* * *

Rude went flying into the air as Rosso gave him an expertly placed roundhouse kick to the stomach. Only the big man's physical conditioning as a Turk saved him from being instantly incapacitated as he struck the front of a now-abandoned tea house, but he could still see spots in front of his eyes. Rosso grinned savagely, apparently pleased with her handiwork.

Unfortunately for her, there were two enemies to deal with. As soon as Rude hit the ground, his partner was in motion; charging in with his trademark Shin-ra Electromag at the ready, Reno bellowed a loud war cry as he jabbed the metal rod at the ex-SOLDIER. The yell betrayed him, however, and Rosso had just enough time to duck aside...as he followed up with a blow aimed at the side of her head, however, she brought her double-bladed crimson sword up to block it. Reno grinned. She didn't even have the time to realize the mistake she had made before he depressed the trigger.

The smell of ozone and the crack of electricity were all the warning she got before two hundred thousand volts coursed up through Reno's Electromag, into her sword, and then into her body. The pain was excruciating, and Reno couldn't help but grin as he pressed his weapon harder against hers. He had half-expected someone in SOLDIER to be a little tougher, but watching her body twitch and jerk as tendrils of lightning played up and down her skin was kind of...disheartening. At least she hadn't bit her own tongue off. "Come on," he chided, "Chocobo-head would never have taken it like this. You're the best SOLDIER can do, yo?"

That taunt seemed to give Rosso new energy. With a herculean effort she placed both hands on the grip and shoved, sending Reno stumbling backward through sheer force as she struggled to her feet. For a moment the two simply stood facing each other, the electricity finally relinquishing its hold on Rosso's nervous system.

Then the SOLDIER charged, raising her double blade overhead. Reno had barely enough time to bring his Electromag up to block as she stabbed downward, knocking the weapon from his hand and sending it clattering to the concrete. However, his response confused Rosso; she was expecting him to cower in terror as she disarmed him. Instead, he took a step back and grinned at her, flicking his wrist. A small dark object flew out of his coat sleeve and into his waiting palm. Her brain immediately screamed a warning at her: _Holdout pistol!_

The first shot from the Derringer missed her head by inches, forcing her to duck to one side and bring her sword up defensively. The second shot rebounded off of her blade, the bullet splitting into two pieces. One half missed her entirely, but the other scored a deep line into her cheek and blew out a piece of her ear before passing on. She screamed in pain.

Reno pumped his fist into the air. "Boo-ya! Nobody dodges my Reno Special, yo!"

"You got that trick from Gun," a voice intoned solemnly. Sometime in the confusion Rude had managed to come back to his senses, and now stood slightly behind his partner. Reno immediately turned his head just enough to glare at him.

"Christ, did you have to bring her up? Three years since the sky fell, and the doctors are still sayin' she won't be able to breathe on her own."

Rude lowered his head; Reno couldn't tell because of his omnipresent sunglasses, but he suspected the bald man was looking at his feet. "...sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Let's just get this over with." Reno then returned his full attention to Rosso, who was staring at them incredulously.

She was really a pitiful sight; her breathing labored, blood oozing down the side of her head, but still glaring hatefully at the Turks. "You guys...aren't taking me seriously, are you?" she rasped, before doing her best to straighten herself. "This isn't a game, you know. I'll kill you."

The Turks looked nonplussed. Rude gave no indication that he had even heard her, but Reno raised an eyebrow. "Life's a game, babe. If you can't have a little fun, well..." The crimson-haired Turk tossed the empty holdout pistol aside, reached into his jacket, and produced a second Electromag. "...guess that's too bad for you!"

Rosso considered her response carefully.

She was tiring. Her opponents were good, better than she could have ever expected from people who didn't have the special blend of Jenova cells and G-Substance that made the Deep Ground SOLDIERS who they were.

The Jenova cells had lost much of their effect after Meteor fell, however. But the G-Substance...it practically howled in her veins. The legacy of the prototype SOLDIER, G, was something she was intimately familiar with. It was the source of her power, after all, the tainted mako that had something to do with Omega WEAPON. She had never been briefed on the specifics.

But, even though it went against every instinct she had, and the seductive whisper of her altered physiology, Rosso knew she had to retreat. The Turks didn't press their assault because they perceived strength in her. Perhaps they wanted her to surrender. But she knew that if she tried to press the attack, she would fail. And then SOLDIER would die with her, as they did whatever it is they planned to do with her. Dissect her, maybe. She didn't know, and frankly didn't care.

So, she did about the only thing she could do under the circumstances: she drew upon the power of the materia she kept hidden in her sword for special occasions, and a comforting memory rose to the surface of her mind...

_**I hate you! I...hate...you! Why can't you all just BURN and disappear!**_

The ground between her and the Turks suddenly erupted into flames, sending a gout of angry orange-red fire at least twenty feet into the air and forcing them to take a step back to protect themselves from the heat.

By the time the Fire2 spell dissipated, she was long gone.

* * *

Reno cursed his luck. They _had_ the frikkin' psycho, and then she had to go and pull a spell out of nowhere and run away. "Damn that bitch, I'm going to kill her. Screw the orders, I'm going to kill her."

Rude said nothing. That was expected, Rude hardly said _anything_ unless it served a worthwhile purpose. And soothing Reno's ruffled feathers didn't count as a worthwhile purpose in his mind.

Reno was just about to call for backup, not to mention check on Katana and Shotgun, when he heard a sudden commotion behind him. Whirling around, Reno found himself practically staring into the eyes of the shiniest damn chocobo he had ever seen. And riding on the back of it, astride a well-maintained saddle, was a man in loose-fitting black clothes with a shiny brass gauntlet and a blood red cloak whose high collar kept his lower face out of sight. His hair was long and wild, black as night, and his eyes were a shade of red just slightly darker than his cloak's. Around his forehead was a red bandanna of some kind, perhaps intended to keep his bangs out of his eyes, as they were rather on the long side.

The woman prompted a lecherous wolf-whistle from the Turk. She was definitely a stone cold fox, sitting side-saddle behind the rider to preserve her modesty, as she was wearing a scandalously short miniskirt. Her hair was even longer than her companion's, a light brown color reminiscent of oak, and done up in a high ponytail. Other than the miniskirt and a matching top, her most memorable item of clothing was a labcoat; that struck Reno as rather odd, since most scientists he knew didn't dress like they were going out on a date. His expression darkened a little as he noticed her left arm, which was clearly a prosthesis, and that one of the eyes behind a rather nice pair of glasses had been permanently shut. _Ewww..._

Of course Reno, as well as Rude, recognized the man in black and red. They knew Vincent Valentine from his time in AVALANCHE, when he and the rest of the group had nearly killed them. Several times. So to say they were a little apprehensive when he showed up practically out of nowhere was a bit of an understatement.

Oddly enough, Vincent was the one to make the first move. "I thought you were handling this." It was more of a statement than a question, and it apparently was enough to break the ice. Reno took a step forward and grinned.

"Heeey, I didn't know they let vampires out during the day." No response. The grin disappeared from Reno's face. "...okay, fine, be that way. We had her pretty well in hand until she decided to blast Fire2 in our faces and book it." Reno couldn't see Vincent's mouth, but he suspected the former AVALANCHE member was frowning at him. The woman was doing her best to ignore him; he found that rather strange, but decided not to comment.

"In hand," the man in the red cloak repeated, almost sounding incredulous, before abruptly dismounting his chocobo with a clank of metal-shod boots on stone. He reached up to give the bird a reassuring pat on the head with his non-gauntleted hand, then brought it back down to his waist. Reno would swear for the rest of his life when recounting the incident that the huge triple-barrel revolver Vincent retrieved _wasn't there_ when he leapt from the chocobo.

"Where'd you get a weapon like that anyway?" Reno asked with barely-disguised interest; he saw Rude tending to the fallen Katana and Shotgun, who were just now waking up.

Vincent ignored him, turning to Shalua. "Stay here with her. I'm sorry, but your gun was a total loss...you'll have to trust me with this one." And then, as soon as the words left his pallid lips, his body seemed to dissolve into his cloak. The tattered red garment flew off into the air as if it had a mind of its own, quickly disappearing from sight.

Reno decided that he was going to need a lot of alcohol to forget this incident. Abruptly, he turned to the woman in the labcoat. "So, what's the deal? You two on a date or something?"

"..."

"Was that a yes?" Reno grinned. He did so love needling people.

"..."

Sigh. Reno decided to drop it. "You're as bad as that guy. You two are made for each other."

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Really, the 'start a fire as a distraction' trick was pretty old hat.

Rosso was surprised that it had worked.

Huddled on the green tiled roof of a Wutaian house and panting in a desperate attempt to force air into her tortured lungs, though, she wasn't inclined to say it was due to her good luck. Even as short a battle as it was, it had worn her out. There was no doubt in her mind: those two had to have been Reno and Rude, two of the top agents in the Turks.

She was still angry at herself for running away, though, and quickly decided to focus on something else to banish those unwelcome thoughts. Her first priority was to get out of Wutai. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time: hide out as far away from Midgar as she could get, where the locals were likely to be hostile to any foreigners snooping around. Especially Shin-ra foreigners. But, someone had to have seen her get on the boat. This was inconvenient, because it meant they were probably going to scour the place before she could find a spot to hide out in. She would need to find some other place to lay low.

Rosso was dragged out of her thoughts by the sudden sound of fabric whipping in the wind. Turning to the source of the noise, she saw what appeared to be be a tattered crimson cloak floating through the air of its own volition...and it was coming right towards her.

Something about the cloak seemed familiar, and her thoughts clicked mere seconds before the first shot rang out: _Valentine!_

* * *

If Vincent had still possessed a mouth to do so with, he would have scowled. Rosso had picked up on him quicker than expected, spoiling his first shot as she dove for the cover of a nearby chimney. The roof tiles where she had been standing shattered into so much ceramic dust as one of the high-velocity rounds Cerberus struck home.

Vincent was proud of the gun. Cerberus was something he had made with his own two hands, customized to his specifications from plans he had acquired as a Turk. The gun was planned to be issued to all members of the organization, but production proved too difficult and the prototypes were melted down for scrap. Vincent's was, so far as he knew, the only one in existence. The revolver had a seperate six-round cylinder for each barrel, each one of which capable of being detached and replaced with a wide array of replacements for different situations; long barrels for distant foes, short barrels for close combat, and a whole host of others. It was a work of art, too, with a black finish and silver grips, as well as delicate silver etching along the barrels. It was probably the closest thing Vincent had to a constant companion, its eighteen rounds of .50 BMG slaying man, beast, and machine with equal efficicency.

And now the monstrous weapon was levelled at Rosso. Just one more in the legion of ghosts haunting his memory. The thought caused a brief wave of sadness to wash over him, but he squashed it quickly. There was no more time for hesitation.

Rosso came out from behind her hiding place with a shout, her twin blade seperated into two halves, one in each hand. Seeing her leap over the chimney with both blades held high overhead, he responded instantly with a snap shot aimed for her center of mass.

The ex-SOLDIER barely had time to bring a blade up to block the shot. There was a loud shriek of metal on metal, and as Rosso landed she stared in horror as she looked at what remained of the sword: the bullet had literally blown through it, leaving a mangled stick of metal in her hands. She tossed the useless weapon aside, glaring hatefully at her opponent. "You'll pay for that...Vincent Valentine."

The pain in Vincent's left arm, which had up 'til then died down to a dull throbbing, suddenly flared up again. It was getting worse, he noted mournfully. Stars danced in his vision as he felt his entire arm go limp, but through sheer force of will he managed to remain steady. "You can't win this time, Rosso. Surrender." The words spilled out of Vincent's mouth before he realized what he was saying; that was strange. Since when did he care whether his enemies lived or died?

Rosso responded predictably. She waved a claw-like gloved hand at the gunman in a disdainful manner. "Oh, spare me. You already know that one of us is going to die here." She grinned in a feral manner as she levelled her remaining sword at Vincent. The curved blade, dyed crimson as if by the blood of its many victims, glinted in the afternoon sun. "And it's going to be you!"

Rosso charged. Vincent's finger tightened on the trigger.

Then, a bolt of lightning flew out of the clear blue sky and smashed into the roof between the two combatants. Vincent was momentarily dazzled by the flash of light, but he could clearly hear Rosso snarling in irritation: "Oh, _now_ who is it!"

A figure descended from the sky towards the spot the lightning had struck moments earlier. Vincent recognized him immediately. The man who attacked Shalua...the man who called him 'brother'. "...G."

Rosso's expression changed; Vincent could have sworn he saw a glimmer of fear pass through her eyes. "G? You mean...?"

G smiled cryptically. "So you've heard of me? Brother, have you been spilling my secrets to strange women?" He turned about on his heels to face Vincent, tilting his head down so that he was looking up at the gunman through his bangs. "I don't think the tin lady would approve of that." At Vincent's raised eyebrow, G just shook his head. "Nevermind. Anyway, dear brother, I have some business with your friend. Do you mind...?"

Vincent frowned beneath the collar of his cloak. "Yes, as a matter of fact I do." He was naturally suspicious, and G's sudden interest in Rosso didn't seem like it was going to end well.

G simply smiled again. "Well, that's fine." Then he abruptly turned his back to Vincent, addressing Rosso. "Crimson Rosso...last of the Zvets. Come, my child." He held a gloved hand out to her, beckoning.

Rosso didn't trust this stranger either. She had heard rumors of a man named G who predated all other SOLDIERs, but... "No." She shook her head, raising her sword. "There's something off about you. I don't trust you."

The man laughed, catching Rosso off guard. She instinctively took a step back, closer to the edge of the roof. "That's fine too. You don't have a choice in the matter." He paused as he heard a faint click behind him; he knew instantly that Vincent had raised his gun, and turned his head just far enough to glare at him. "Now now, brother. Don't interfere."

Vincent bit back a cry as it felt like his arm was about to explode. Like the flesh had been peeled off in strips. Try as he might, it was so excruciating that he couldn't move. His strength faltered, and Cerberus clattered to the tile below. A moment later he followed, dropping to his knees with a muffled thud. A soft 'plap!' caused Vincent to look down at his stricken arm. There was no mistaking it this time: black goop was welling up between the joints of his gauntlet and dripping onto the tiles below. He could only stare at his hand, transfixed by the sight. _What...is this?_

Satisfied that Vincent was occupied, G turned his attention to Rosso, who was glaring at him. "So you took care of that guy for me. Am I supposed to trust you now?" she asked, suspicion heavy in her tone. She folded her arms over her chest as if to complete the image.

G laughed. Again, Rosso found herself taking a step back; this man didn't have a pleasant laugh. It reminded her uncomfortably of Weiss, for whom laughter was a tool to register his disdain for the unfortunate soul for whom the sound was intended. "Why, my dear sweet child...you misunderstand me." He then held a hand out towards her, palm-first this time. She felt a brief tugging sensation, glancing down at herself. An expression of abject terror spread over her face as she saw tendrils of black ichor leeching out of her bare stomach. Then everything went black, and she felt nothing more.

From Vincent's perspective, it looked like G was drawing something out of Rosso. Black goo seemed to ooze out of her stomach, to her horror...then it began to come out of her nose, then her eyes and ears. By the time the last of it had snaked through the air in tendrils that leeched into G's body, nothing remained of Rosso but an ashen statue. She was frozen in place, eyes wide with terror and clutching her stomach as if vainly trying to keep the foreign substance inside her body. Moments later, the remains collapsed into a swirl of dust that dissipated into the breeze. Her sword tumbled off the roof to clatter noisily to the ground below. Looking at his hand, Vincent couldn't help but wonder if he was going to share her fate.

"So, brother, it appears that we're alone at last." G turned to face Vincent now, placing his hands in the pockets of his coat. He looked rather casual considering that he had just murdered someone. "Too bad about the witch, though, isn't it? She had to go and run away instead of dying in Midgar like the rest of her wretched kind..."

At this point, every instinct Vincent had was screaming at him that he was going to die here unless he did something. Forcing himself unsteadily to his feet, Vincent's eternally unruffled gaze locked onto G. "I won't..."

"Won't what?" G asked, tilting his head to one side in a gesture of kitten-like curiousity.

"I won't...let you do as you please," Vincent intoned darkly, his blood-toned eyes suddenly flashing like twin rubies. Dark energy began to swirl around his body, forming into a sphere of murky blue and black plasma. G simply watched curiously, vaguely perceiving an object moving around inside. He assumed it was Vincent.

When the sphere suddenly exploded into particles that scattered to the four winds, however, the creature that was left behind was definitely not Vincent.

Standing in his place was a hulking brute, a creature that looked like seven feet of solid muscle covered in grey-blue fur. The creature's arms were black and leathery, ending in wicked-looking claws that gleamed in the sun's light. Its face was canine-like, with a mouth full of razor sharp teeth and glowing yellow eyes. It had two horns sprouting from amidst a head of spiky white hair, and a strange carapace on its chest. The only clothes it wore were Vincent's pants, torn off at its knees, and his cloak wrapped around its waist like a loincloth.

G didn't know the creature's name, and indeed it had none. Professor Hojo of the Shin-ra company once referred to it as the Galian Beast, and that was the only identifier that stuck with it.

The creature let out a blood-curdling screech as it regarded G with an expression normally reserved for predators regarding prey. He seemed completely undisturbed by his opponent, however, reaching back and drawing Weiss' katana-rifles in the blink of an eye. "My my, brother...letting out such a beast in a public place. Shame on you." Unfortunately, Vincent was no longer there to hear him.

The Galian Beast, however, knew that it hated the puny creature of flesh and bone standing before it. Even if an unnatural power was radiating from him. The beast leapt into the air, its mighty legs propelling it nearly a dozen feet up as it brought one hand up, then came crashing down towards G to crush him beneath its claws.

The creature found itself stymied, however, when G crossed both of the katana-rifles in an 'X' shape above his head. Rather than bending from the awesome force of the blow, his arms remained perfectly rigid, keeping the Galian Beast at bay. He grinned. It, of course, couldn't understand his amusement. All it knew was that it hated the human before it, and wanted to devour his innards after it had broken him into pieces. Pushing off from the barrier of blades, the beast nimbly flipped about in mid-air to land on its clawed feet.

The beast considered its options. It didn't plan like a man did, it simply went for the instinct that felt right at the time. Its first instinct, smashing him, had failed. So it went to Plan B. The creature held its arms out to the side, wisps of smoke appearing in its palms before they suddenly burst into demonic-looking flame. G began to charge as he saw the creature preparing to attack, but was too late: an instant before he got within his sword's reach, the creature clapped both hands together and launched a massive ball of fire right into his face. The explosion sent a column of smoke into the air that was visible for blocks.

The creature was amused. It was sure that it had just turned its prey into so much burnt meat, and practically salivated at the thought. It was so certain of its next meal, in fact, that it became enraged when the smoke from the explosion cleared to reveal G standing before it with a shimmering barrier of energy protecting him.

"What's the matter, brother? Losing your touch?"

* * *

Shalua was just about ready to deck Reno. While the rest of the Turks had busied themselves with searching for Rosso or helping the authorities clean up the mess that had been made of the marketplace, the man in the red hair seemed to have made it his mission to pester her; she was positive he was 'checking her out' whenever he thought she wasn't looking.

She was almost grateful when a loud explosion shook the area. She instinctively ducked her head and threw her robotic arm up to shield herself, but when no shrapnel was forthcoming, she began to look around for the source of the disturbance. Even with one eye it was hard for her to miss the column of smoke rising up into the air. It took her only a moment longer to remember who had been heading that way. "Vincent!"

Reno was impressed. In all his years as a Turk he had never seen someone leap into a chocobo's saddle, turn the bird around, and kick it into action as quickly as Shalua. She was gone before he could say a word.

* * *

As Shalua drove Vincent's chocobo towards the source of the explosion, a million thoughts raced through her mind. She was quickly struck dumb by the sight that awaited her as she rounded the final corner, the chocobo's claws scratching on the concrete as she pulled it to a stop.

Up on the roof of a nearby house, the man who called himself G was standing opposite a massive wolf-like beast that she had never seen before. There was no sign of Rosso. Or Vincent.

The creature seemed to be fighting with G, as it lunged forward with claws extended to rake into the man's flesh. G leapt aside with an almost contemptuous expression on his face, bringing one of his stolen rifle-katanas around in an overhead arc that came down just short of the creature's wrist. It yowled in pain, clutching its wounded forearm and taking a step back from its enemy.

Something about the creature seemed almost familiar to her. "Is that...a summon?"

The beast seemed to have heard her, its ears pricking up at the sound. It turned to look at her, and its expression changed. It almost looked ashamed. "Sha...lu...a?" it growled, clearly unused to human speech.

G paused, swords raised as if about to strike. He followed the creature's gaze to Shalua, grinning in an unsavory fashion. "Well well, the tin lady shows. What a happy coincidence this is!" Then he levelled one of the blades at her, his expression turning deadly-serious in the blink of an eye. "Give it back." And with that cryptic comment he flew forward in a blur of motion, aiming to drive the blade straight through her.

Finding his progress halted, however, G blinked in confusion. The creature had dashed in to block his attack, and as a result the rifle-katana had skewered clear through its midsection. He laughed as the realization hit him. "You poor, pathetic fool. Throwing your life away for others?"

It only took a moment for the creature to lose its energy, as dark blood pooled at its feet. It slumped forward bonelessly, then to Shalua's horror began to transform: the creature was Vincent, still impaled on G's blade. The two men glared at each other.

"Who are you?" Vincent asked after a moment's pause. "Really?"

G smiled, pulling his blade back with a wet slicing sound. The weapon was covered in blood, but he seemed not to care as he slid it back into its sheath. Then he took a step back from Vincent, noticing the other man's unsteadiness. His lone black wing sprung out from his shoulder blade before he spoke, rising up into the air. "I'm the one who will set this sinful world straight. If you must call me something, call me Genesis." And then he turned around and simply disappeared, his wing carrying him off at impossible speed.

"Genesis..." Vincent mumbled the word, letting it roll off his tongue, before he finally lost his strength. He stumbled backwards, his foot hitting naught but air...he fell, and right before he hit the ground he heard a voice shout.

"Vincent!"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Edited to reflect recent news about _Crisis Core_. I warned you that I'd be spoiling the rest of the Compilation, didn't I? 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Vincent awoke to find himself floating.

Not the comfortable kind of floating, where you're suspended in water.

No, this was the kind of floating where it felt like you had been dropped into outer space. Moving his limbs did nothing to affect his position, and he had no indication of where he was: all that he could see was a featureless white expanse. Used to the darkness as he was, his surroundings actually hurt his eyes. He closed them after a moment of uselessly trying to find something sharing that space with him.

_Am I...dead?_

Suddenly he felt solid ground beneath his feet, and opened his eyes.

"What the..."

He was standing in a rather nondescript room, with plain wooden floor panelling and slate grey walls. It appeared to be a boy's bedroom, as there was a bed along the far wall with soccer-patterned sheets, and a toy rifle propped up against a cedar chest on the adjoining wall. There was a window on the far wall, just above the bed, through which Vincent could see that it was daytime; the sky was vividly blue, with only a hint of wispy white clouds.

As if by magic, a small boy appeared on the bed just as Vincent noticed the window. He let out a small noise of shock, as he recognized the boy.

"That's...me. Then this is my room...?"

The boy was wearing gym shorts and a white t-shirt, and was apparently waiting for something as he sat on the bed. He was humming some sort of tune that Vincent couldn't place, and was kicking his legs over the side of the bed. The boy looked perfectly normal to Vincent's eyes, though he also seemed to have a serious expression on his face that looked quite out of place on someone so young. The boy turned to look straight at Vincent, and for a moment he thought the boy's brown eyes had turned just as crimson as his own. The boy smiled.

"Father!"

The exclamation confused Vincent. Was the boy talking to him? Then he heard footsteps behind him; before he got a chance to turn around, someone walked through him. He didn't feel a thing. This person had walked through him as if he were a ghost.

The man turned aside slightly, and Vincent recognized him instantly. It was Grimoire Valentine, his father. "So that boy really is me...is this my past?"

Grimoire looked a lot like adult Vincent. They both had the same pallid skin and long dark hair, but his father's features were broader and softer. He had a kindly appearance about him, and was often seen smiling, as he was at that moment. It clashed dramatically with his clothes, which had a flair for the dramatic that Vincent had copied as an adult: he was wearing a long black cape and a red bandanna about his neck, a black shirt, and black leather pants. He suddenly remembered that the kids in his neighborhood had often called his father a 'friendly vampire'. The recollection brought a pang of sadness into Vincent's heart, something he knew he was going to have plenty more of if this was the incident he was thinking of.

"Vincent, my boy! It's so good to see you again...you were asleep when I got home last night, so..."

Vincent the boy smiled. Vincent the man frowned; he knew where this was going now. "Father, mother wasn't here when I woke up this morning. I had to make breakfast for myself. Where is she?"

The smile instantly melted from Grimoire's face. "Vincent..." he approached the bed, kneeling down to the younger Valentine's level and placing a hand on his shoulder. "...I'm afraid Mother won't be coming back."

This was quite a shock to a ten year old boy, as was expressed by young Vincent's face. "...what? You're...you're lying, aren't you?" The expression of horror instantly turned to anger. "You're lying! Bring her back!"

Evidently his father had expected the outburst, as he straightened to his full height and shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry, I wish she had said something to you, but...she's gone. It's just the two of us from now on, son..."

Young Vincent broke down crying. At a loss for what else to do, his father patted his head comfortingly. Vincent just shook his head. At the time he was too young and foolish to understand, but eventually he learned what had happened. His father, being a top-class researcher for Shin-ra Manufacturing Works, spent much of his time either on research expeditions or working in the lab. Eventually the distance corroded his marriage, until one day Vincent's mother could take no more and walked out on the family.

He had never really gotten over that, his adult self realized, turning away from the scene and folding his arms over his chest. "...I don't want to watch this anymore," he said aloud, even though he knew nobody could hear him.

Closing his eyes once again, he felt the ground shift under his feet.

* * *

"...Veld?"

Shalua blinked. She had brought Vincent to the nearest inn, and since laying him on the bed he hadn't so much as stirred. She was a little surprised to hear him speak.

"Vincent? Can you hear me?"

There was no response. Whatever was going on was for his eyes only.

This left her with the thorny issue of what exactly to do with him. The bleeding had mysteriously stopped about halfway to the inn, but she had no idea what that meant. As a doctor, her first thought was that he had died, but the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved that idea false. At the moment she was trying to come up with the courage to undress him enough to get a look at the injury; frankly she was afraid of what she might find.

"...god, I'm being such a baby."

Her mind made up, Shalua quickly unfastened the belts holding Vincent's cloak on, and carefully lifted it up over his head. The shirt underneath was a little more complicated, and she silently cursed his obscure fashion sense, but was eventually able to figure it out after unbuckling several belts and a line of buttons running up the middle. Sucking in her breath, she then began to pull the two halves of the shirt aside to reveal Vincent's bare chest.

"Oh, Gaia..."

She felt her heart drop into her stomach as she saw what lay beneath the black fabric. Vincent's body was practically a network of scars. The largest was a straight vertical line from just beneath his collarbone all the way down to his navel, with the tell-tale hatch marks that Shalua recognized as the aftereffects of stitching. The others were all small but noticeable, showing a lifetime of trauma; from puckered circles that were old gunshot wounds, to tiny nicks and cuts made by knives and swords. Quite a few looked as if they had been made by a scalpel, the realization of which made her feel a little ill. She couldn't find any sign of the wound that she was so sure had been fatal, except for a diagonal line that looked fresher than the other scars; while the others were all pale and old, this particular line was red and inflamed-looking.

"What kind of monster could do this to another human being...?" she murmured, fighting the urge to button his shirt back up and pretend she hadn't seen anything.

* * *

_It's my first mission all over again..._

Inside the world of his own memories, Vincent found himself standing outside a seedy bar in the slums beneath Sector 6. Called 'Wall Market' by the locals, the small town had the distinction of being one of the nastiest parts of the slums. This was quite an achievement, considering that most people living under the plate lacked even the most basic of necessities, such as running water or electricity. Or a steady supply of food.

In Wall Market, the gangs were so entrenched that they made no secret of their control. Gun battles were frequent, and fatalities were mounting. Being slum-dwellers, of course, the Company didn't care how many died. It was the knowledge that the gangs were acquiring stolen military hardware, though, that finally forced the Shin-ra to act.

Imposing martial law was expensive, however. And so the Shin-ra had scouted around until they found a gang leader who was willing to keep order. They found such a man in Don Corneo, leader of the 'Don's Toughs' youth gang. He had the men, he had the drive, and he had the total lack of scruples to get the job done. In other words, he could have been a Shin-ra executive if he hadn't been born in the slums. The rival Cutter Krew gang comprised the only obstacle: with their heavily-fortified base at the border between Sectors 6 and 7, they had an utter stranglehold on the entire market. That money bought them a lot of hired goons, far too many for Corneo to break by himself.

And that was where the Turks came in. Inside the bar, Vincent knew that his past self was meeting with Corneo in one of the private back rooms. His supervisor, Veld, was with him as well.

The plan was very simple. The leader of the Cutter Krew, a man called Knife, had made an offer that Corneo couldn't refuse: pay a large cash ransom, or lose the right to exist. It was an offer he had made to all the other gangs in the area, and all had either paid with the cash or their lives. Corneo, however, had the Shin-ra on his side. Vincent was to escort Corneo into the meeting, while Veld snuck in from outside.

Vincent frowned as a small group exited the bar. He recognized his past self right away: all of twenty-one years old at the time, he nevertheless cut an imposing figure in the Turks' standard issue black business suit. His expression was cold and severe, a quirk he had quickly picked up from his commander. He had no visible weapons, but was instead carrying a large black briefcase that ostensibly held the ransom money.

His commander was standing nearby, and carrying a silenced submachinegun that was normally issued to the Army; since he wasn't going to be going in disguise, he had no need of concealed weapons. He was going to be breaking in the old fashioned way. Veld wasn't a young man, even back then: his face was deeply, perhaps prematurely, lined. He had obviously seen much worse than Vincent ever had, and at the time he had prayed that he wouldn't end up like that when he became a senior Turk. Veld's appearance was immaculate, his hair neatly trimmed, with long bangs hanging to either side of his face. The only deviation from the dress code was a short goatee that he had recently started growing.

Don Corneo, accompanied by two of his most loyal followers, didn't look much different than when he met Cloud some thirty-six years later. He was still short and fat, with bulging lips and beady eyes that gave him a distinctly fish-like appearance. He had a full head of blonde hair, however, something he seemed to take great pride in; Vincent groaned as he watched the gang leader pull out a comb right on the spot, an annoying habit of his that had driven the Turk up the wall.

Vincent followed as the small group (including his past self) set out for the Cutters' base, Veld quickly breaking off and disappearing from sight. By the time they reached the front gates, everything seemed to be perfectly normal.

"'ey, who's the suit?" one of the guards, a distinctly pig-ish looking fellow with greasy red hair and a pug nose, growled.

Corneo, if nothing else, was a gifted liar. "He's my accountant," he said breezily, as if stating the obvious. The guard paused for a moment, and Vincent recalled briefly wondering if it was because the man had to think about what the word 'accountant' meant.

"Awright, fine." Inwardly, Vincent remembered sighing with relief. The ensuing pat-down went exactly as expected, since nobody had brought any hidden weapons. They had even checked the briefcase, which had 500-gil notes in neat stacks. Thus disguised, they entered the Cutter Krew's base.

'Base' was something of a misnomer, it was really more like a mansion. As Vincent followed along, invisible and intangible, he noticed Corneo looking around appreciatively; he hadn't noticed that at the time, perhaps due to nerves. The foyer was as sumptious as expected, with marble tile flooring and gilded banisters. Their hosts led them up to the second floor and into Knife's office, which was behind a set of double doors made of purest Wutaian jade. In time with his past self, Vincent snorted with derision at the ostentatious display of wealth. At the time, he had correctly pegged Knife as an insecure egomaniac.

Inside, the leader of the Cutter Krew was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, arms folded behind his head and feet propped up on an antique hardwood desk. Knife was a mean-looking fellow, tall and lanky, with long and jagged scars on either side of his face. His hair was kept hidden behind a camouflage-patterned dewrag, and the rest of his clothes suggested a military air: a dark green wife-beater tanktop, camouflage pants, and army boots. It was only later that Vincent would learn that Knife was an Army deserter. His namesake weapon, a pair of very large and nasty-looking Bowie knives, were set out on the desk in front of him. His posse was there as well, two men on either side who were built like the proverbial brick wall.

Knife smiled with feigned generosity as the group entered. "Corneo!" he said as he leaned forward, removing his legs from the desk and folding his hands in their stead. "You're late." Any trace of mirth left his face in an instant, and Vincent watched as his past self glanced at Corneo; the fat man showed no trace of concern, apparently placing complete trust in his new allies.

"You know how it is, Knife. The ho's can't keep their hands offa me." Corneo grinned lasviciously. Both Vincents couldn't help but roll their eyes.

Knife shook his head. "I really didn't need to hear that from you, fatso," he said, voicing what everyone else in the room was no doubt thinking. "Now did you bring the money or what? I ain't got all day, and if I've got to gat you foo's I'd like to just get it over with."

Corneo's face fell when Knife mentioned his weight; apparently it was a sore subject for him. "Go ahead then, Vincent. Give him the money." Vincent resigned himself to his fate. He watched as his past self approached the desk, opening the briefcase with a faint 'click' as he set it down on the hardwood surface.

Knife briefly rummaged through the bills, spoiling their previously tidy appearance. "Five grand is all you got? Foo', I know I told you to bring at least ten if you wanted to keep your head. You _tryin'_ to get your punk ass killed?"

Corneo simply smiled. Glancing down at his lapel-mounted microphone, Vincent's past self whispered the word "Showtime" before pressing a concealed button on the lid of the briefcase.

Before Knife knew what was happening, 500-gil notes were flying into his face as the bottom of the suitcase flew up on cleverly concealed springs. Barely an instant later, and the room was filled with acrid smoke from a canister concealed beneath the money (which was all fake, as Corneo would discover when he later tried to use some 'leftover' bills). "What the #?" Knife bellowed, coughing and flailing as the smoke blinded him.

Vincent's instincts were too good for that, however. Without missing a beat he turned the suitcase around and retrieved the other item concealed inside: a suppressed .45-caliber pistol. He closed his eyes, honed in on the nearest source of noise, and fired once. Knife immediately went silent, as a bullet pierced through his jugular with only a muffled 'whump!' from the pistol.

To their credit, the guards found their wits quite fast. Vincent could hear staccato bursts of gunfire; evidently they were firing blind. Ducking for cover behind the desk, he waited for the smoke to clear. Corneo and his gang had already retreated back the way they had came, leaving nothing visible in the room except for Knife's twitching and bleeding corpse.

"What the hell? Where'd that fatass Corneo go? Did he do this?"

"Couldn'ta been...he wouldn't have had the stones. Maybe the suit?"

"Don't be stupid!"

Vincent shook his head. Before his eyes, his past self dove out from behind the desk, landing on his side and firing twice before the guards could react; the first went down with a bullet in his brain and another in his chest, and before the other could comprehend what was happening he got two in the chest as well. To his credit, the second guard was tough enough to survive. Vincent could see his chest was still rising and falling, albeit erratically. He strode over to the surviving guard, pressing the tip of the silencer between the man's eyes, which were almost as wide as Corneo's stomach.

"D...don't kill me man! I got kids!" the man practically shrieked, bringing his hands up in a vain attempt to protect himself.

"..."

"Please! I swear, I'll never bother you again if you just let me live...I don't want to die!"

"..."

Vincent watched as his past self hesitated. He had never really killed anyone before, and the man's terror-stricken expression was causing him to doubt himself. Was it right to kill someone who couldn't defend themself? Was it neccessary for the completion of his mission?

The decision was taken out of his hands with a faint 'thwip!', as a shot from above pierced the man's skull and killed him instantly. Vincent's past self immediately looked up as a ventilation grate fell from the ceiling, and Veld dropped down with the submachinegun in hand.

"All floors cleared. Vincent, you hesitated." It was a statement, not a question. Vincent's past self looked at the floor.

"I know, sir. I'm sorry."

Vincent sighed, his eyelids dropping closed as if by guilt. After that incident, killing became easier and easier for him.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Doing the math, in this 'fic, 'young Corneo' 36 years before Meteor puts him in his 50s during the game itself. So not only was he dirty, but he was a dirty old man. XD 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

When Vincent next opened his eyes, his first reaction was confusion.

He found himself standing in the ancient forest that surrounded the Forgotten City, under a sky nearly as bright as the bioluminescent trees that surrounded him; this told him that it was sometime towards the middle of the day, but he was at a loss as to what kind of compelling memory had brought him here. The previous flashbacks had been to momentuous occasions in his life. Why was he here?

He was confronted with the answer when he heard the tell-tale sounds of someone running; the flap of clothing in the breeze, the puff of air through overworked lungs. Turning around, he came face to face with Shalua, who was running through the woods as if her life depended on it. She was still in her usual high heels, however, which caught on an exposed root and sent her sprawling; Vincent at least had the good grace to look away.

"Crap..." she moaned, pushing herself up off the ground after regaining her senses. As she did, Vincent could see that her face had struck a rock, and a newly-made blotchy red mark was visible on the left side of her face. Vincent understood at that moment: he was seeing what happened to Shalua before he had heard the gunshots that brought him to her.

This, of course, only confused him more. He was over half a mile away at the time this was taking place, so there was no way he could have been watching this as it happened. Was his brain making this whole thing up?

Confused as he was, however, Vincent continued to watch with arms folded over his chest. If there was some purpose to this incident, he wasn't going to let it disappear on him.

Having pulled herself into a sitting position, Shalua looked around as if searching for something. Vincent was vaguely curious what she was looking for, and got his answer as he heard the fluttering of a wing behind him. Shalua looked straight through him, and as Vincent turned, he saw Genesis descending to the ground slowly...almost leisurely. One of Weiss' katana-rifles was already in his right hand.

"I'm tired of running. Tell me who you are!" Shalua's voice broke the silence that had befallen the forest. Before Vincent could turn around to face her again, he could hear the 'whoosh!' of something being drawn rapidly, and then the click of a hammer being drawn back. Genesis grinned, bringing his weapon up so fast that Vincent saw blurry after-images in its' wake; he fired, and Shalua screamed.

_That would explain the gunshot..._

He couldn't help but frown as he looked over his shoulder and saw Shalua clutching her good arm with her robotic replacement. Blood was seeping between her metal fingers, and it looked like she was biting her lip to keep from crying out. Nevertheless, she gathered herself up to her full height and glared at Genesis with admirable resolve.

"What...do...you...want?" she bit out, locking her one remaining eye on the man before her.

"None of your business," Genesis shot back, breaking into a run that carried him right through Vincent. It still bothered the gunman, but he managed to ignore it as he turned to follow the motion. In the blink of an eye Genesis was on Shalua; Vincent heard a wet slicing sound, and saw a spray of blood arc out onto the ground. Genesis had come close to disemboweling her in one stroke. Shalua's eye widened in shock, and she teetered unsteadily on her feet. Then gravity, and her wounds, won out and she hit the ground.

"Why...?"

Genesis simply grinned as he walked over to her dropped gun, and stomped on it. "Because you, and your sister, and my brother...you all have your parts to play. I have the little girl, but..."

"Shelke?"

Vincent watched as she tried valiantly to claw her way along the ground to Genesis, but halfway there her strength left her. She passed out, and that was just as Vincent himself burst onto the scene.

As he was facing the incongruity of watching himself enter a memory that had already started, everything faded to white. Vincent threw his gauntleted arm up to protect his eyes from the glare.

* * *

"..." 

This time, when he opened his eyes Vincent found himself in a place he had never seen before, even in passing. He was lying in a bed in what appeared to be an inn, somewhere in Wutai if the exotic wood flooring and rice-paper walls were any indication, and he was completely nude from the waist up excepting his clawed gauntlet and the underlying glove. This last revelation brought a frown to his face, and he began to look around for his clothes.

Seeing both his cloak and shirt hanging from a hook on the door, Vincent immediately pushed himself out of bed and strode over to retrieve them. Just as he was reaching up to take his cloak, there was a sharp stab of pain in his right arm. Looking down, Vincent could see that the ugly black lines had reached all the way up to his shoulder and were snaking off towards his neck and heart.

_That can't be good..._

"When were you going to tell me that you were sick, Vincent?"

He was shaken out of his reverie by Shalua's voice. Turning to face her, he could see she was slumped over a desk in the far corner, her head now raised to look at him as she spoke; he idly wondered how long she had been there. "...I'm not," he replied, hoping it didn't come out sounding as lame as it felt leaving his lips.

"It's normal for your veins to pop out on your skin as black lines?"

Vincent sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his clawed hand; a bad habit of his. "Nothing about me is normal, Shalua."

She immediately stood up and fixed him with a searching gaze. "But you didn't answer the question."

He frowned, tossing his cloak over onto the bed as he pulled his shirt over his head. "I'll live."

Shalua folded her arms over her chest. She said nothing, but she clearly wasn't buying Vincent's explanation.

"The last time I saw you, you were in a coma that they thought you'd never come out of. So what are you doing up and around, Shalua?" Vincent was nothing if not adept at steering conversations away from his personal matters. She seemed to be a little surprised at the question, her arms dropping back to her sides as she turned to look at the window.

"I...still had things to do."

Shalua couldn't help but smirk a little at Vincent's non-response. The look in his eyes told her that he was still curious, but he couldn't bring himself to actually say so. "I remember seeing the Lifestream, and a woman with brown hair told me that I had to go back. She said..." Her expression turned wistful, then, as her mind travelled back to the event in question. "'The living don't belong with the dead. You have to go back.' And then I just...woke up. I was standing in a stasis tube in the middle of a ruined lab, and it was raining mako. I'm still not sure how I managed to avoid getting mako poisoning...maybe the glass enclosure protected me..."

"That was at least half a year ago. How come it took me this long to find out you were still alive?"

The question took Shalua aback. Contacting Vincent, frankly, had been the last thing on her mind; she had half expected him to give one of his trademarked elliptical responses ("Hi Vincent! Long time no see!" "..." "Nice talking to you, too."). She couldn't suppress a rogueish grin. "Why, Vincent Valentine...I didn't know you cared."

She sighed. The look on his face was one of quiet mortification, and it was about then that she remembered he had a previous love who he still hadn't gotten over. That brought a pang of jealousy to her heart, which she quickly swatted down. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have teased you. It's just...well, I kind of wanted Shelke all to myself, you know? It had been ten years and we were finally able to catch up like normal sisters..."

"...so that's what she was hiding."

Shalua smiled wistfully. "She wanted it to be a big secret. I think she was going to blab when she went to go see you, but..."

Vincent's expression was sober as ever, but he recognized the shadow that suddenly passed over Shalua's face. "...I'm sorry," he blurted out suddenly, looking confused. Where had that come from?

"What for?" she replied, curiously.

"...for your loss. For not being there to protect Shelke. For...a lot of things." Not quite knowing why, he took a step closer to Shalua.

The smile that appeared on her face was genuine, albeit tinged with sadness. "Thank you."

Vincent nodded resolutely, tugging his cloak on and buckling the belts that held it on his body. "We're going to find her. Where's Cerberus?"

Shalua looked at him blankly.

"My gun...?" he offered, looking around to see if he could find it himself.

"Well, about that..." she suddenly looked bashful, glancing down at the ground and trailing off. An awkward silence descended on the room.

...only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Well, on the wooden frame of the door anyway.

"Hey hey, missing something?" a voice called out from the other side of the door, before it slid open and a red-haired head poked into the room. "Hope I'm not interrupting," Reno said with a grin, before sliding the door open fully and stepping into the room. He was holding Cerberus in both hands, and clearly having difficulty with the massive weapon; he held it out to Vincent as if eager to get it off his hands, and the ex-Turk accepted it gladly. He couldn't help but look it over for signs of tampering, a gesture which caused Reno to put up his hands defensively. "Turk's honor, I didn't touch the thing. ...except for bringing it up here."

Vincent frowned. "I didn't know the Turks did favors," he said, glancing over to Shalua; her expression was serious now, arms folded over her chest as she glared daggers at Reno. Evidently she didn't trust the Turks either, something Vincent couldn't fault her for.

Reno waved his hands dismissively as he turned his back to the pair, preparing to leave. "Yeah, well, you may still be an asshole, but we've got our orders." The red-haired man grinned at them over his shoulder, before turning to walk through the door and around the corner.

Nothing was said, until Vincent slid Cerberus back into the holster at his hip and began to approach the door that Reno had just left through.

"I've got some things to take care of. Stay here."

And just like that, he was gone, before she could even say a word.

* * *

"He wasn't very happy to see me, y'know. I'm lucky he didn't try and blow my head off, yo." 

"I'm aware, Reno. You do remember that he was a member of AVALANCHE...?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

Reno sighed and shook his head. Sometimes his boss had this way of making him look like a total idiot. Elena would have said that was just his natural state.

His boss hadn't really changed that much since the incident in Edge. Rufus Shinra still got around in a wheelchair, but at least he had abandoned the stupid sheet over his head. The injuries he suffered thanks to Kadaj's gang had healed nicely, and except for the faint scarring on his wrists from his old Geostigma infection, he didn't look much different from when he was still running the most powerful corporation on Gaia.

Reno couldn't stop a frown from spreading across his face, so he turned aside to conceal it. Despite appearances, he really did love his job as a Turk, and it saddened him to know how far the Shin-ra had fallen. Sometimes he wondered if Rufus wanted to bring the company back at all.

As if noticing his employee's sudden discomfort, Rufus cleared his throat. "You know..." he began, before tilting the arm-mounted joystick forward and wheeling his electric wheelchair closer to the door. "It's already been a few days, and I've heard someone looking like that man in the red coat was already spotted near Gongaga."

Reno blinked, confused. Where was this all coming from? Rufus wasn't any help; he just grinned as he watched confusion spread across the Turk's face.

"Well, you see..." Rufus suddenly turned his attention from Reno, and rapped his knuckles on the rice paper wall. "It's not very nice to eavesdrop on people, now is it...Mr. Valentine?"

Reno's jaw dropped. For a second he was sure that his boss had finally gone off the deep end, but when he went to open the door...sure enough, there was Vincent, red cloak and all.

"...I thought I smelled a rat," the ex-Turk said in his usual monotone.

"What did you say?" Reno wasn't sure what Vincent was driving at, but he sure as heck wasn't going to let that insult slide. "You're the one spying on people, yo!" His hand immediately went for his Electromag, but he stopped when he saw Rufus waving a hand in the universal gesture for 'wait'.

"After all that's happened, I suppose I deserve that..." the former president said, looking at the ground for a moment before locking eyes with Vincent. Unlike the former Turk, his eyes glowed a faint blue, a legacy of the mako enhancements that had ended up saving his life. "...but, we all have our sins to atone for. Come in, Mr. Valentine, I have nothing to hide from you."

Against his better judgement, Vincent decided to take him up on the offer, keeping his hand near the handle of his gun just in case. Striding into the room with the clap of metal-shod boots on wood, he paused just long enough to close the door behind him.

Rufus smiled, apparently unfazed by the gesture of mistrust. If anything happened, Reno was always there to help. And so he smiled, as warmly as he could given the circumstances, before holding his arms out in a welcoming fashion.

"Well then...let us talk."

* * *


End file.
